


A Fortunate Circumstance

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, there's some shit-talking about krennic, what a ridiculous ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Galen Erso is a very private person. Krennic knows him too well, and that has only ended in loss. But when Wilhuff Tarkin makes a surprise visit to the Eadu facility, Galen has to realize the ways in which Tarkin and Krennic differ.





	1. Chapter 1

The rainfall on Eadu is incessant. Like Kamino, the planet is constantly awash in pouring rain, but unlike the flooded planet of clone-makers, Eadu still has a multitude of landmasses jutting up from the sea like fingers clawing at the sky. The gray above; the black below. If the Empire had _wanted_ a more dismal place for a research facility, they would have been hard-pressed to top the natural oppression.

Deep inside the facility, the rain’s tone is different, but Galen can still hear it through the sheets of metal and wiring. He’s always loved humid worlds, but this is bordering less on “humid” and more on “oceanic”. Day and night are more often defined by his chrono, rather than by the natural light. Still, having an absence of natural patterns means that they can perform experiments at almost any time of day, controlling the factors involved more tightly, and their results are more consistent. Galen has done away with the heady dreamer he once was—the dreamer that got his Lyra killed—but he is still pleased that they allow him to work with the crystals, unspooling their secrets bit by bit.

It’s been months since Krennic was last here. Galen isn’t allowed to know the full dimensions of their project, but at least it keeps Krennic away from Eadu. Krennic always has the look of the unbeliever, of the profiteering salesman who wants short answers and catchy conclusions. Galen wants to hate him. But for Krennic’s sake, he remembers conversations on Coruscant, debates over strength and dynamics and elasticity of energy transfer. Krennic isn’t _stupid_. And when Galen is caught in the worst of his personal storms, it’s worth something to have Krennic around to pull him out.

But he isn’t in a storm. Not mentally, at least. The one outside lashes at the windows, sending up winds that howl like demented monkeys, and so it is that the chime of an approaching ship makes Galen look up from his desk. The other two researchers, still making some pretense at understanding Galen’s notes, mimic his surprise, then slough off their gloves to start checking themselves in the polished surfaces of the lab. Galen can’t help but to roll his eyes—they put far too much stock by Imperial tidiness—but signs out of his notes all the same, locking them for later. As the other two rush out, presumably to meet their surprise visitor, Galen closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair to listen to the rain fall.

Rain, too, has a pattern if you listen long enough. This one is a real storm, angry and violent, and Galen is again reminded of Krennic. The ocean comes up from below, rising and falling with patient movements, but Krennic is too quick for that. Krennic places his attention everywhere at once, coming down with equal severity against radio technicians and pilots and research assistants and Galen Erso. There are vague noises from around him, the sounds of the facility reacting to a new ship and the announcements of some important figure, but Galen is…

Well, he won’t claim that he’s being insubordinate, but they’ll summon him if they need him. He won’t play their little games of praise and congratulations. Let them come to him if they’re so desperate for approval.

There is a blessed few minutes of silence, where Galen can simply enjoy the rain, and just as he closes his eyes the door to the room hisses open. There is the click of boots, the stench of nervous sweat, and Galen tries not to let his distaste show as he opens his eyes to watch Krennic’s posturing.

But it isn’t Krennic.

Galen realizes that Krennic always follows Imperial protocol: he would have sent at least three confirmations of his arrival, and broadcasted his arrival with his full title. Granted, Galen _could_ have missed all those announcements, but their visitor today evidently wanted some element of surprise.

Well, he certainly got it.

The man facing Galen is tall, made even taller by the thick heels of his boots, and his stormtrooper escort is certainly intimidating. For his own concerns, however, Galen is more focused on the angles of the man’s face, the sharp lines of cheekbones and the trim angle of a nose. The man seems suited to Eadu—harsh, taut, poised—and Galen can feel his attention like a laser. Galen is surprised to find himself standing, though he doesn’t offer a salute, and finally he nods once in attempted deference.

“I take it you’re here to check on our progress. Krennic should have already received our last report, so I’m not sure—”

“I don’t preoccupy myself with what Krennic knows or doesn’t know.” The man waves his hand once in dismissal, and glances behind him at the gathered engineers and stormtroopers. “This is a research facility, isn’t it?”

A hesitation, then one of the engineers nods. “Of course, Governor—”

“Then go and _research_.” The man _shoos_ away the gaggle of observers, and Galen can’t help but smile. Even if the man’s rank is equal to Krennic’s, he evidently has no time for the formalities of Imperial fawning. “You’re Galen Erso.”

“In the flesh.” This time, Galen makes a mock bow, standing straight to endure the man’s scrutiny. “I haven’t prepared a formal report, since we didn’t know there were any visitors planned, but—”

“I don’t need a formal report.” The man turns to the tables beside him, glancing at the specimen containers and wiring spilling over the sides. “I also wasn’t a planned visitor.”

“Then what are you?” Galen knows he is hardly the ideal Imperial lackey—his tongue never listens to protocol, and his mind is too free to follow orders blindly—but even he can feel the regret of speaking out against a commanding officer. To his relief, the man simply bestows a small smile, still watching Galen closely, and nods.

“I am Governor Wilhuff Tarkin, overseer of the Seswenna sector and owner of this facility. Though you may report to Krennic, Galen Erso, I am the one who most directly influences your ability to function here.”

Galen blinks, taken aback by both the man’s tone and by the revelation of his identity. Of course he had some vague idea of _Tarkin_ , the man-as-concept, the name that signed off their requisition requests and their mechanical routine reports. He’d assumed the name was simply a minor captain on some monitor somewhere, someone who signed his name and went back to patrolling a Star Destroyer on the other side of the galaxy. Galen hadn’t ever considered that the man might be real, that he might be a _governor_ —

And that his eyes might be so bright and keen.

“As I said, I’m not expecting a formal report.” Tarkin is continuing, glancing again to the tables. “But since Krennic sees fit to abuse his position by bothering you at any moment he chooses, I figured I would try it for myself. I, at least, have a reason to be here.”

Galen feels himself smiling again, turning away to hide the expression. He would never actually _say_ the things he thought about Krennic. Tarkin apparently has no such restraint.

“Is the facility adequate to your needs, Galen Erso?”

“It’s a research facility. I would make do with a microscope and some rocks, were I required to.” Galen shrugs, surprised that Tarkin hasn’t yet reverted to calling him “Engineer”. “The work seems to have progressed positively.”

“Hm. True.” Tarkin reaches out to tap a fingernail against the table, glancing at the specimens. “Do you feel any trepidation about handling the crystals? You realize their potential, and yet…”

“They’re essentially inert. There is a threshold of energy required for them to give off any significant signature, and it’s merely our attempts to configure them at this point that take up our time.” Galen moves forward to unclip the few wires dangling from the table, spooling them around his hand. “You can look at them, if you’d like.”

“I’m flattered.” Tarkin says, reaching down. He chooses the smallest crystal from the container, holding it in the palm of his hand, and carefully studies it in the light of the room. “I apologize that we haven’t been able to get more information from the Jedi archives. It would have been too much to hope that in death, the Jedi might have been more helpful than they had been in life.”

“Yes. Well.” Galen can only nod uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. So few Imperials even mention the Jedi anymore. Maybe Tarkin doesn’t think of himself as an average Imperial.

“Is there any substance to the Jedi’s claims? That they can form ‘relationships’ with the crystals, that there is some…force of will that affects the crystals’ response?” Tarkin rolls the crystal around his hand, watching it catch the light. Galen feels caught, trapped in conflicting stories, and finally decides on a shrug.

“Perhaps. We can’t measure that sort of thing, not consistently. There may be…” Galen puts himself on pause, backing away from a dangerous line of thinking. Tarkin cannot know these things. Not if Galen’s loyalties are to be made certain.

“I must say, Galen, you are an impressive researcher.” Tarkin drops the crystal back in the specimen container, drawing closer to Galen with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting this when I scheduled my visit.”

“This?” Galen is unsure of what exactly Tarkin means—but he notices the use of his first name. “I’m merely—”

“You’re intelligent. And not intelligent in the rote way that Krennic describes. You genuinely enjoy your work.” Tarkin nods, turning slightly to walk back to the door. “Come. You know this facility better than I do.”

Galen finds himself rushing to keep pace, noticing the stormtroopers that fall into step behind them. “You’ve only been here for ten minutes, and you think you know my work?”

“You’ve published extensively, Galen. Even if the Empire has withdrawn you from the academic circuit, your research is still available. I was impressed by what I read. And now I’m impressed by what I see.”

Their walk has been short, and taken them only to the end of the hall, but Galen stops short in front of a wide window to contest Tarkin further.

“You haven’t _seen_ anything. The crystals—it’s not flashy or impressive anymore, it’s merely the minute adjustments and reordering. The crystals do all the work. My role here is only to oversee—”

“And yet it is you.” Tarkin nods, folding his hands behind his back. “You are incapable of separating yourself from your work, even though you protest. No one could do this work with the instinct you retain. Tell me, Galen: are they beautiful?”

“They—” Galen finds himself taken back, somehow offended at Tarkin’s pressure and yet breathless at his appreciation. Krennic never uses the word “beautiful”. Krennic is more worried about relays and outputs, which he might find beautiful in his own way.

But Tarkin…

“They hold entire universes inside them, and we’re using them to power laser beams. It’s like asking the entire traffic system of Coruscant to hold still so their headlights spell out ‘hello’.”

Tarkin shakes his head, but the motion isn’t disapproving. Galen can see the smile of _affection_ , some measure of interest in Tarkin’s movement, and finally the governor responds. “I could never invest myself like you do, Galen Erso. It’s a skill. I’m proud that we’ve been able to give you this facility, this _opportunity_. And I hope Krennic’s meddling hasn’t ruined everything for you.”

“I’m glad I can be here.” Galen has to force the words out, his own conflict buried under so many layers of pretense that he’s surprised by his hesitation. But Tarkin is watching him, observing him, and in a movement that surprises them both, Tarkin reaches forward to put a hand on Galen’s upper arm.

“I disturbed your work—I realize now how prohibitive that must be. Come to my quarters later, after your shift is over. I’d be interested to hear more about how this facility works.”

“It’s your—“ Galen swallows his sarcasm and merely nods, afraid to move. “I’d be happy to explain anything I can.”

Tarkin’s smile has faded now, but he backs away to let Galen recover. A moment passes, a heartbeat of hesitation, and Galen suddenly offers another nod and flees back down the hallway. The door to his lab admits him easily, hissing closed once he’s through, and for the first time that day, he can truly catch his breath.

This Tarkin is dangerous. Predatory. Galen must be careful.

And yet…

He knows he will find himself in Tarkin’s quarters tonight regardless, if only to explain the crystals in more detail to the one man who seems to care.

+++++

Just as he had been earlier in the day, Galen is paralyzed by a door, but this time, he’s on the outside. Tarkin’s been given the temporary quarters Krennic usually claims, and they’re easy enough to find, but despite his familiarity with the location, Galen can’t bring himself to enter. He knows so little, understands so little—yet he walked here of his own volition, and is preparing not to leave, but to enter.

Is it because Tarkin simply isn’t Krennic? Has Galen become so familiar with Krennic’s bullying, and brashness, and sheer lack of subtlety, that Tarkin’s mere gentleness is like a balm to Galen’s psyche? Is it because Galen knows so little about Tarkin—the mystery makes him attractive?

Galen’s head is full of questions. But at the root of it all, Galen is still a scientist. And a scientist can only learn by observation. Taking a deep breath, Galen enters his access code in the keypad beside the door, and without even a verbal acknowledgement, the door glides open to let him step inside.

With the lights dimmed, the light from outside is more visible, and Galen lets his eyes adjust to see Tarkin standing before the wide window of the quarters. Turning partially, Tarkin smiles as Galen draws closer, and before Galen can even attempt a greeting, Tarkin is offering a glass of amber liquid.

“Glad you could make it. I surmised that Corellian whisky might be in short supply here—I’ve brought a particularly fine malt.”

“I really—” Galen does not have the energy to protest, and so he simply accepts the glass before setting it on a nearby table. Tarkin glances back to the window, watching as the rain glistens across the rocks and trickles down the screen, and taps a finger against his own glass before speaking.

“I don’t have much time here. Krennic tells me that this facility ‘isn’t my concern’, and that he has things ‘under control’. But you should know as well as I that Krennic’s word is only good for Krennic’s worries. I needed to see this for myself.”

“You read my publications.” Galen says. “You took the time to read them.”

“As much as I understood.” Tarkin nods in rare deference. “I didn’t quite have the time to earn a degree in geology, but with some effort, your work speaks for itself. And it testifies to the merits of its author.”

“I—Thank you.” Galen nods back, feeling a familiar tension before claiming a seat by the window. It probably isn’t protocol for someone to sit before their superior sits, but Galen has bigger concerns. Fortunately for him, Tarkin also sits in the other seat available, sipping from his glass to set it aside.

“You weren’t what I was expecting, Galen Erso.” Tarkin says bluntly, and Galen can feel his surprise turning to interest.

“I’m…sorry?”

“Krennic certainly implied you were merely an academic, someone obsessed by his laboratory and his work. I won’t say he was _wrong_ , per se, but he avoided so many more details. There is so much more to you than your work for Krennic.” Tarkin nods, steepling his fingers in front of him, and Galen blinks in surprise. He has absorbed himself in his work, subsumed any idea of “Galen Erso” within Krennic’s expectations, and yet Tarkin reaches beyond that with the experience of a single day.

“Like what?” He finds himself asking, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Tarkin turns, his full attention now devoted to Galen himself, and Galen can do nothing but wait.

“Well, he failed to mention that though your mind may be of the most value to the Empire, your body has an appeal of its own.”

Galen isn’t sure why he’s surprised—Tarkin has made his interest evident, but Galen isn’t accustomed to anyone expressing their interest so bluntly. Then again, it’s been _years_ since anyone expressed their interest at all. Galen’s out of practice, out of experience.

Tarkin hasn’t moved, but Galen can feel his gaze, even and patient. Galen knows he should respond, should either extract himself or commit himself, but his own tension is his downfall.

“You. I.” Galen takes another breath, looking back to the window. “I’m not—I barely know you. I didn’t realize you were…that Krennic had told you so much. I know nothing about you.”

“Then don’t assess me by what you know. Assess me by what you’ve seen.”

Galen nods sharply, looking up again to meet Tarkin’s eyes. “You—before I start. I have one request.”

“Anything.”

“Call me Erso.” Galen sits up, noting Tarkin’s surprise.

“Erso. Not Galen?”

“Krennic calls me Galen.” Galen nods again, forcing himself to relax.

“And you call him Krennic.” Tarkin smiles, sitting up to lean closer to Galen. “No love lost there, it seems.”

“Love isn’t a factor.”

“Well said.” Tarkin stands now, moving to stand in front of Galen’s seat. “For a man who sees universes in kyber crystals, you still maintain a dangerous rationality.”

“I have nothing else.” Galen confesses, sitting up straighter to meet Tarkin’s eyes. Despite everything, despite Tarkin’s position, despite Galen’s vulnerability, Galen cannot help but tell the truth in this. Somehow, Tarkin _knows_ , and without waiting for Galen—without hearing any of Galen’s compliments—Tarkin is already leaning forward, placing one hand against the arm of the chair while using his other to pull Galen close and kiss him on the lips.

Galen knows that this is a dangerous game. Tarkin is a dangerous man, with too much power and too much energy to be ignored. But Galen responds not because of Tarkin’s power, but in spite of it, brushing past the constructs of Imperial power to find the man beneath.

As Tarkin pushes closer, his free hand already finding its way to Galen’s chest, Galen realizes that their glasses are still sitting on the table beside them. Tarkin did choose a good malt, he said. Ignoring the gift might be a mistake.

But with the pressure of Tarkin’s attention, Galen quickly recognizes that both of them have better issues with which to occupy themselves.

++++++

It is a standard week later—nearly a month on Eadu, but a week according to galactic time—when Galen wakes to find a message on his personal datapad. Important messages are rarely sent as minor pings, especially if they’re urgent (Krennic prefers to wake him with a call), and research findings come through to his desk alert. Confused, Galen dresses and prepares himself for the day in a slight haze, finally reading the ping to follow its directive to the shipping center by the hangar bay. A tired-looking cadet glances at his identification when he presents it, and disappears into the back before returning with a small box.

“It was sent to me?”

“Engineer Galen Erso. That’s you.” The cadet nods shortly, punching a button on his desk before handing it over.

“I. Thank you.” Galen accepts the box with some confusion, turning away to leave the cadet to his desk, and carefully carries the box back to his quarters before unfolding the seal at the top. A small paper note is folded atop a layer of packaging, and Galen unfolds it slowly to see a few sentences in tight, neat handwriting.

_Erso,_

_I didn’t realize until I left that you’d never had a taste of the whisky. More investigation has informed me that whisky is unlikely to be your drink of choice—as apology, please accept this bottle of Durosian wine. Eadu may not have much in the way of comforts, but as our lead researcher, the Empire has a duty to make sure you find something to appreciate. I can’t promise that I’ll be back to Eadu any time soon, so there’s no need to save it._

_May this be something to convince you that even with Krennic’s parading, there is still someone sympathetic to your position._

_Wilhuff Tarkin_

Galen can do little but stare at the note in surprise. He has no doubt that the box is exactly what Tarkin claims it is, though he does worry about what “investigation” Tarkin might have carried out. Galen has gotten himself tangled in a web he didn’t even know existed, the dangerously messy world of Imperial command and the power struggles between Tarkin and Krennic. Tarkin’s visit wasn’t merely for Galen’s benefit. Galen knows that.

Yet no matter how much he tries to talk himself out of it, he still can’t convince himself that a night spent with Wilhuff Tarkin was a bad decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin gets upset with some different people, Galen realizes how difficult it can be to mix work and play, and Coruscant has way too many people.

“Really? We’re calling it _Empire Day_?”

“It’s the simplest nomenclature, Governor, and it translates easily if we need to.”

“’Empire Day’. Even when we try to bring some clear-headedness to this…” Tarkin waves one hand vaguely, flipping through the dossier in his hands. “This _masquerade_ , we still make it sound like we developed the name in committee.”

“We, ah. We did develop the name in committee.” The younger man coughs politely, glancing at his audience with some trepidation. “That copy’s for you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“That was perfectly clear, Colonel Tion.” Tarkin snaps the cover sheet back down atop the rest of the papers, glancing at the title again before looking up to face Tion fully. He waits a moment, another—then barks, “You may go.”

“Yes, well, if you have any questions—”

“You may _go_ , Colonel.” Tarkin waits until the man bows, then scurries out of the reception room, letting the doors iris closed behind him. An aura of regal silence fills the informal reception room, echoing Tarkin’s own ease, and he finally drops the sheaf of papers into his lap before turning to his companions.

“Don’t tell me the navy’s going to have a parade. Admiral Thrawn, I beg of you.”

“I don’t have much say over what the ships are commissioned to do.” In the elegant white of the admiralty, the blue-skinned Chiss makes a non-committal movement with a hand as he watches Tarkin. It is rare that the highest ranking officers in the Imperial hierarchy are in the same room, much less a room _without_ Darth Vader or the Emperor. Yet here Tarkin has found himself, stuck in the limbo of waiting while Coruscant prepares to celebrate.

 _Empire Day_. Ridiculous.

“The worst part about this? Tion’s on the track for command. He’s going to be commanding a ship someday.”

“It was my understanding that Lord Tion’s responsibilities were purely informative.” Thrawn pauses, tilting his head in an affectation Tarkin cannot read. It’s either feigned ignorance, which is idiotic, or a rhetorical device, which only serves to annoy Tarkin further. “I trust he’s been through the Academy.”

“Everyone’s been through the Academy.” Tarkin shrugs, leaning back in the plush chair he’d claimed. In these informal rooms, some of the former elegance of the Republic has been retained in the fine art and sculpted seating, and though Tarkin does not often take time for such niceties, he knows that there is little to contest. Besides, it is amusing sometimes to watch Thrawn reacquaint himself with the art styles of pre-Empire planetary representatives. “But yes. I haven’t checked his record, but let me say in confidence: we have more to fear from that man’s arrogance than from any insurgency or ‘rebellion’.”

“You underestimate rebellion, Grand Moff.” Thrawn says quietly, raising a hand to his chin in contemplation. Tarkin accepts the chastisement with a nod, but watches Thrawn closely as the other being seems to consider the idea.

“Please. Call me ‘Governor’.”

“Interesting. I had assumed—” Thrawn pauses again, sitting up in his seat. “You are the only Grand Moff. Why not claim the title?”

“The title can be more confusing than it’s worth.” Tarkin acknowledges. “Tell me, Admiral Thrawn: what does the title of ‘moff’ imply?”

“I understand them to be the next level of regional governor. Because of the Empire’s structure, the moffs assume a level of military responsibility, maintain local security, and oversee the various planets in their jurisdiction.”

“So simple. So elegant. If the Empire defined clear limits for its military and for its administrators, moffs would have a much easier task. Then again, ‘moff’ as an Imperial class would likely not exist.”

“You think the Empire makes it overly complicated by mixing the responsibilities of administrators and generals?”

“I think the system itself is tenable. It’s these years of adjustment that have proved difficult.” Tarkin nods, gesturing to a nearby group of men to catch their attention. “Moff Pereez. Do you find your current staff sufficient to accomplish your duties?”

The man that moves at Tarkin’s gesture is older than might be expected, with hair wavering between white and blond. Still, his eyes are clear and his posture straight, and he considers Tarkin’s question carefully before shrugging.

“If the Emperor asked it of me, I could do with half-staff. In the Mid-Rim, systems are well enough established to allow them to function without my interference. But if reports of rebellion spread, then the pressure of security will overwhelm my other duties. I am expected to maintain a presence on the various planets, to enforce the regulations of Imperial protocol, and still ensure that the various ships and military cadets are assigned effectively. At the risk of dwelling on negatives, Governor, it is not the most stable process.”

“Interesting.” Tarkin nods slowly, glancing at the papers in his lap. “And your thoughts on Empire Day?”

Pereez blinks, then winces slightly. “It’s…effective.”

“In fairness, it’s been called ‘Empire Day’ for at least a standard year.” Thrawn says, hiding a small smile behind his hand. “Most of the Outer Rim worlds have at least some appreciation for the fete.”

“Coruscant should be sick of ceremony by now.” Tarkin sighs, leaving Pereez to look questioningly between his two superiors.

“I think Lord Tion makes some convincing points.” Pereez says with a gesture to Tarkin’s papers. “Even our cadets expect some ceremony upon graduation. For a civilian populace, Empire Day seems to satisfy most of their expectations for a yearly celebration.”

“If nothing else, the ceremonies cement the Empire’s legitimacy. Having tangible representations of the Empire, or even the Emperor himself, gives the people a point of reference.” Thrawn continues. Tarkin merely nods with a measure of weariness, picking up his papers again to hold them in one hand before standing.

“Moff Pereez, I thank you for your input. I hope you and your family enjoy the day.”

“As long as I can keep Tion away from my daughter, I’m sure the day will be wonderful.” Pereez offers a short bow, backing away to return to a group of other officers, and Tarkin watches him leave with a measure of interest.

“Tion already has enemies.” Thrawn says beside him, prompting Tarkin to shake his head.

“Pereez isn’t fighting with Tion over power or income. This is a father worried about an overbearing suitor.”

“You wouldn’t characterize that as an enemy?”

“Pereez has the proper measure of Tion. He considers him no more than a barking wolf-pup.” Tarkin moves to begin walking, headed for the outer doors to emerge into the Coruscanti sun. “Perhaps a wolf-pup in heat. Tion does seem to have that overeager look about him.”

Thrawn is quiet, and Tarkin has to glance beside him to ensure that the admiral has followed him outside. “Among my people, the females tend to be the more sexually aggressive. It intrigues me that both you and Moff Pereez would give such attention to Tion’s…off-duty tendencies.”

“A good captain would know all the tendencies of all his officers. This is impossible in reality, but—” Tarkin holds up a hand, caught now on his own impetus. “It reflects the irritations I mentioned before. Pereez started a family before he was assigned the position of ‘moff’. He has a daughter, and since she catches Tion’s attention, I assume she’s of marriageable age.” Tarkin does the math mentally, working backwards to calculate ages. “Not only does Pereez thus have to coordinate his Imperial duties, but he now must act the role of protective parent. He is asked to be a local governor, security officer, military general, naval liason, and now a social coordinator. I’m sure his daughter finds partners readily enough on her own, but each serious contender must be screened by Imperial security. It’s likely that Pereez will want her to marry someone already on the Imperial hierarchy. Tion _could_ be a contender, though with Pereez’s disdain, it seems unlikely.”

“The nobility of the Republic is maintained in the Empire, then.”

“I would hardly use the term ‘nobility’. In the Empire, those who do not deserve their position are weeded out.”

“As Tion is being ‘weeded out’?” Thrawn asks pointedly, drawing a momentary glare from Tarkin.

“You suggest that our methods are imperfect.”

“You know as well as I that no method is perfect. I also know that the Imperial hierarchy can be subordinated by money, or parentage, or species.” Thrawn has stopped, forcing Tarkin to face him, and Tarkin does his best not to let his irritation show.

The two beings face each other for a long moment, the noise of the Coruscanti traffic filtering in around them like a buffer. Finally, Thrawn shifts backwards, giving ground to Tarkin as the Chiss speaks again.

“You assigned a captain to my ship. Ritan. He came as an ‘intelligence officer’, I believe, and was not shy about making his presence known.”

“I don’t have the authority to assign officers to your ships, Admiral.”

Thrawn allows a tight, grim smile, as humorless as Tarkin’s occasional grins. “There’s no need to play games, Governor. I don’t mind his assignment.”

“That was quite a few months ago, Admiral. You could have contacted me earlier.”

“No need.” Thrawn copies Tarkin’s earlier movement of dismissal, and Tarkin feels a tick of irritation. His research hadn’t indicated that Thrawn was a natural mimic—though it’s possible they have similar motions. The idea shouldn’t be discounted. “I was interested to see what he would do in a naval position. He was capable enough in an intelligence position, but he countered his officers too often to be a suitable captain.”

“A shame.” Tarkin tuts softly, shaking his head. “I must have been too lenient.”

“You also chose to dispose of him. He did not take that kindly.”

“I was not ‘disposing’ of him. He should have realized that.”

“Winning the trust of subordinates requires that they be informed of their mission, Governor Tarkin.” Thrawn says firmly. “You sent him to me because of his non-human status. You expected me to take offense.”

“It was a test, Admiral Thrawn. I don’t disagree that the Empire holds a certain standard of cadet. I don’t disagree that your position is the highest to which a non-human has ascended in the Imperial ranking. And, on top of that, you come from a species about which the Empire knows _nothing_. I have confidence that the Emperor would not have appointed you on blind admiration, and I don’t believe that your non-human status automatically disqualifies you from the position. But any unknown factor is dangerous.”

“We are meant to be allies, Governor.”

“When it comes to the Empire, you can be certain of my goals. I don’t believe we will always have the same approach to tactics, but in this, I digress. You are an admiral. I am a grand moff. We have our roles to play in the pattern of the galaxy.”

Thrawn is quiet, watching Tarkin as the sounds of Coruscant envelop them once more. Finally, without any word of farewell, Tarkin offers a short nod, turning on one heel to walk away along the promenade to leave Thrawn standing at the railing. Left only with his thoughts, Thrawn moves to lean against the railing and clasps his hands together, looking out to watch the traffic weave atop, around, and between itself in the layers of Coruscant. Finally, coming to a conclusion, Thrawn smiles and taps a foot against the ground in renewed interest.

Perhaps the formidable Governor Tarkin has an interest in theater.

+++++

When night falls on Coruscant, its citizens seem determined to live life with even greater vigor than during the day. A heady nightlife occupies several of the lower levels, and with museums and galleries claiming the prime real estate at the top, lights are visible practically everywhere, glittering like their own stars in the swirl of activity.

In the shuttle assigned to them, Tarkin takes a deep breath of the lightly scented air and sits up, watching his companion carefully. They both wear their Imperial uniforms—anything less would be out of place in the formality of empire—but Tarkin’s grey is more suited to this metropolis, where Galen Erso’s darker suit is both less formal and less impressive. Tarkin is the first to admit that Erso himself is worthy of better, and the uniform does not suit him. Still, extracting Erso from Eadu will earn him enough of Krennic’s wrath. Gifting Erso a new uniform might be pushing Krennic’s limits.

Erso looks to Tarkin distractedly, and Tarkin acknowledges the look with a small nod. He has learned to be gentle with Erso, to move slowly, like taming a wild animal. Erso doesn’t have a physical sanctuary to which to retreat, but Tarkin can see how his eyes dim when he distances himself. Such a vibrant opposite to Krennic—Krennic, who is always present, always in the moment, always hyper-focused on any detail that might give him an edge. Erso seems to be dreaming half the time, holding himself apart from the galaxy as if he could watch it move without ever getting involved.

Tarkin does not know why, exactly, this is so attractive to him. He read Erso’s work, and was immediately hooked by the intelligence apparent in the articles; he visited the man’s laboratory, and was drawn in by his broad shoulders and chest. No, Tarkin will not deny his attraction. He has always had a weakness for men with strong arms and firm jaws, men of substance and resolve, but Galen Erso’s brilliance is simply a bonus Tarkin never could have expected. In this rare opportunity, Tarkin can show some kindness, pay homage to Erso’s distraction. So it is that he remains quiet, letting Galen make his own observations about their surroundings rather than trying to fill the void with conversation.

“I lived here, once. We had a view of a park, near the middle levels.” Erso speaks suddenly, pulling Tarkin from his thoughts. Erso doesn’t point, but nods to a lower strata of the Coruscant buildings, below their level of traffic.

“It must have been an ideal location.”

“Things were simpler.” Erso says, and returns to his silence in watching the movement of the ships below them. Tarkin watches as they make their approach to the theater itself, elegant arches swallowing their speeder to let them pull up to the entrance walkway. As the speeder comes to a halt, Tarkin stands and holds out a hand, silently gratified when Erso accepts his hand to move toward the door.

“I’ll warn you that I wouldn’t expect too much from this production. I’m not the kind of theatergoer that seeks to revisit the plot on the transport back to our quarters.”

For a brief moment, Tarkin is graced with one of Erso’s gentle smiles, and Tarkin leads them out onto the walkway to release Erso’s hand.

“If nothing else, the change of scenery is nice. I don’t think it’s possible to go outside on Eadu without planning for a complete overhaul of your uniform.” Erso smooths his current uniform mechanically, still looking at the cacophony of lights and beings surrounding them. Tarkin finally moves forward to carve a path through the crowd, creating a bubble of space where Erso can follow. Unlike most of the theater visitors, Erso and Tarkin do not pause for idle chats or sociable discussions, and so it is that they find their seats in the darkness of the theater and are quickly cocooned by the curve of their seat borders. Tarkin takes note of how Erso relaxes in the darkness, and as the first triumphant swells of orchestral music rise from the pit, Tarkin reaches out to take Erso’s hand in his own.

Given the celebrations planned for the next day, Tarkin is not surprised by the theme of the play. There are some vague tones of Imperial morality, a judgement of honor and loyalty, the importance of strength as embodied in the Emperor. The complexity is about equal to that of a child’s story, and Tarkin allows himself to slip into a light doze until the first act comes to a conclusion. As the lights come up, Tarkin feels Erso’s grip suddenly tense on his hand, and Tarkin sits up to watch as Erso studies the audience with some trepidation.

“We can go back out to the walkway, if you’d like. Most of the others will continue to meet out there until the next act starts.”

“Ah—no. Thank you.” Erso releases Tarkin in order to stand, studying the arrangement of the seating capsules as they begin to empty of their occupants. Between the capsules, bunny-like serving droids approach the few beings who, like Erso and Tarkin, have chosen to remain in their seats, and offer small glasses of liquid for consumption. Tarkin stands as a server approaches, claiming two glasses (likely a berry wine, though on Coruscant, one can never be sure) for himself, and turns back to catch Erso’s attention as the engineer looks back to him.

“Is there something special about this theater?” Tarkin hands a glass to Erso, watching him study the liquid before taking a small sip. Erso visibly tenses at the taste, but says nothing until he swallows, returning his focus to the seats around them as he cradles his glass.

“The seats are like seedpods. Obviously some of the boxes are larger, but they—if they had copied insect hives, they could have fit more boxes. This isn’t an Imperial structure, this is Old Republic.”

“Interesting.” Tarkin smiles, leaning back against their box’s railing to sip his own drink. “You’re a geologist by training, yet you choose organic metaphors?”

“It wasn’t my choice. Whoever designed this made a very obvious choice. Besides, knowing the difference in structure between organic material and sediment is vital for preliminary evaluations.” Erso is nodding to himself, edging along the side of the box as he looks around them. Tarkin turns to lean against the railing with his arms and carries out a survey of his own, but instead of studying the structure of the theater, Tarkin is more concerned with the few visitors who haven’t left their seats.

Most of the visitors blend into the shadows with their Imperial uniforms. There’s a good collection of moffs, generals, and admirals in attendance, but most of them are likely “networking” in the lobby outside. Tarkin can just make out a white uniform on the other side of the theater, and smiles to himself to imagine Thrawn watching the performance. He’s known of Thrawn’s artistic tendencies from early reports, and has no doubt that Thrawn has very specific tastes. The heavy-handed moralizing of this production must hit Thrawn like a brick to the head.

Still delighted by that mental image, Tarkin continues scanning the theater, and when another patch of white stands out against the blackness, Tarkin’s smile develops into a full grin. There, only a few rows below them, Director Orson Krennic is staring up at Tarkin’s box with a barely-disguised look of fury.

This is a big day for the Empire. Most of the high Imperial command is here on Coruscant, preparing for the celebration of the year. Krennic is no exception, nipping at the heels of those with more power and better sense than he has, and Tarkin simply watches as Krennic tries to process the image in front of him.

To Tarkin’s right, Erso is still absorbed by the architecture, and Tarkin can see the first few stirrings of patrons returning to their seats. Setting his glass on the railing’s flat top, Tarkin moves to close the distance between himself and Galen, touching the engineer once on the shoulder to draw his attention back to his immediate surroundings. Erso looks to Tarkin in surprise, pulled from his meanderings, and Tarkin watches as the other man reorients himself by slow increments.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine.” Erso confirms, shaking his head once before finishing his drink. As the lights surge, then dim, Tarkin moves back to his seat and waits for Erso to follow. As Erso comes back to his seat, Tarkin prepares to relax into his seat and catch a few more minutes of rest. However, Tarkin is surprised to feel Erso’s arm resting atop his own, and he turns slightly to watch as Erso presses himself against Tarkin’s side.

“Are you sure about that assessment of ‘fine’?”

“Making myself comfortable doesn’t mean I’m not ‘fine’.” Galen twines his fingers with Tarkin’s, sealing them together as the theater returns to darkness. Tarkin cannot help but laugh lightly, adjusting to provide Erso with the most comfortable positioning, and watches the lights rise again on the massive stage. The play itself might not be overly interesting—but at least Tarkin has his own new topic of interest to occupy him in the meantime.

+++++

Despite the play’s overall lack of content, Tarkin has to admit that the ending is flashy enough to be entertaining. The main character earns an interesting monologue, and there is no meaningless romance to try and spice up the plot. As Imperial theater productions go, it could certainly be worse. Erso, despite his predictions, has not fallen asleep, and as the lights come back up, the two men stand in sync and make their way out of the theater to emerge into the Corsucanti night.

Tarkin sees no need to claim a connection to Erso in the presence of witnesses, and as such, he moves ahead of Erso some distance while he studies his neighbors. A full retinue of Imperial officers mill around the promenades surrounding the theater, but Tarkin scans the crowds to find a specific figure. It takes a few minutes, but Tarkin finally spots a figure in white moving determinedly through the other, darker uniforms, and Tarkin settles his expression in a calm evenness before watching Director Krennic storm up to him.

Krennic’s irritation is palpable, reeking like a bad cologne, and Tarkin has to prevent himself from sighing in exasperation. If only the man would learn _grace_ , or determination, or even an attempt at elegance. But no: Krennic must make every single move obvious, must reveal all his intentions, escaping any chance at subtlety. As Krennic draws himself up to his full height, Tarkin adopts his familiar parade-rest pose, watching Krennic prepare an argument.

“You brought my _head engineer_ to a theater production on _Coruscant_?”

“This is an off-duty period, Director Krennic. I don’t know that it’s your prerogative to question what I do or don’t do in my off-duty hours.”

“He’s my engineer! There’s a reason I keep him on Eadu, and it’s partly so you can’t snatch him up and—”

“And do what, exactly? He doesn’t have access to his research materials here. He’s not going to be making any breakthroughs in my custody. He is a valuable member of an Imperial research division, and he deserves some consideration for his contributions.”

Krennic simply glares at Tarkin for a long moment, the wind rushing past them to make Krennic’s cape snap sharply. Of course Krennic couldn’t simply wear a normal uniform: he insists on the cape. Tarkin does not doubt that Krennic keeps a retinue of extras, just in case his normal cape gets damaged.

“You don’t have the authority to reorganize Imperial divisions simply because of personal preference.”

“I’m not reorganizing anything. Engineer Erso agreed to accompany me. I understand he lived here, in earlier years, and he has the capacity to appreciate what Coruscant has to offer.” A capacity Krennic lacks, in Tarkin’s opinion—but there is a time and place for that information. “You trap him on Eadu like a jealous lover, preventing him from accessing the greater Core Net. If I didn’t know you’d better, I would say you were _afraid_ of his capacity. He doesn’t need your restraint in order to be the most effective researcher he can be.”

“He has not earned the right to additional liberties, either.” Krennic’s anger is cooling now, simmering to a less potent rage. Krennic takes a step back to look down at the ground, thinking hard as Tarkin studies him. “Believe me, Governor Tarkin, I have my reasons for treating Galen the way I do.”

Tarkin inhales breath to speak, then reconsiders. Galen Erso’s file is large, larger than is usual even for accomplished military scientists, and Tarkin has some knowledge of the events in Erso’s past. He knows, even if Galen hasn’t mentioned it, about the death of his wife, the loss of his child. He knows that Erso’s loyalties have been tested, and were found wanting. But that was years ago, long enough for a man to put aside youthful dreams and accept the reality of the galaxy. To accept the reality of Imperial rule. Krennic apparently has not forgotten this apparent betrayal, even over the years of faithful service, and Tarkin blinks in surprise.

“You _are_ a jealous lover. His attempt to flee came from your earlier mishandling of the situation, and attempting to do the same now will only push him into a similar flight. You cannot make him trust you by ignoring his own needs.”

“The man doesn’t understand our purposes, Tarkin. He needs a firm hand.”

“Fine. Then you can provide that firm hand while he remains on Eadu.” Tarkin takes a single step forward, leaning forward to watch Krennic cower ever-so-slightly. “I will handle him as I see fit whenever he is somewhere else.”

“Ah, gentlemen.” A voice interrupts the two of them, and Tarkin steps back to give Krennic his space as another man approaches. Instead of the dark greys or prim whites of Imperial officers, the man that steps forward is clad in a deep blue. Dark-skinned, with a regal bearing, the man stands with traditional determination, his bright eyes studying both Imperials before he speaks. Though his hair is greying, a trim beard remains a healthy black, and Tarkin watches him in serious consideration as he interrupts them.

“I’m sorry, this is a private conversation—”

“Senator Organa. I didn’t realize you maintained a presence on Coruscant.” Tarkin nods smoothly, congratulating himself on provoking the flushed embarrassment on Krennic’s face. Of course Krennic wouldn’t care about senators from an outdated Republic, but Tarkin knows that they are a necessary evil. For the time being, at least. Unfortunately, the presence of Organa reminds Tarkin of his conversation with Thrawn earlier in the day, and as he faces the senator, he cannot rid himself of a slight frown.

“I don’t, as much, but when duty calls, I must answer.” Bail Organa makes a sweeping motion with one arm, catching the edge of his robes to let the fabric shimmer in the light. “With the celebrations tomorrow, I thought it might be informative to see the festivities in the flesh. It promises to be quite a day.”

“Yes. Well.” Tarkin nods once, watching Krennic try to keep up with the shift in conversation. “And the play?”

“Oh. Yes. The play.” There is a moment of hesitation as Organa’s eyes flick to the side, but he returns Tarkin’s gaze soon enough. “It was…interesting.”

“Wasn’t it just. Is there something I can help you with, Senator?” Tarkin cannot keep the chill from his tone, but Organa is diplomatic enough to avoid drawing attention to it. Organa may not be a military man, and he certainly is too gentle to survive long in the politics of the Empire, but at least he knows when to let an insult pass.

“Not specifically. But when the only Grand Moff of the Empire finds time in his schedule to appear on Coruscant, I would think he deserves some acclaim. Appreciation, perhaps. Your work on the Outer Rim has been echoed across the Net for years.”

“Ensuring the security of the Empire is a reward in itself, Senator.” Tarkin accepts the praise (or flattery—from a senator, these things are much the same) with a deep nod. “It will be a lengthy process to secure our own borders, but maintaining our internal strength is of equal importance. Already the rumors of rebellion tear at our seams.”

“One cannot fault individuals for trying to find better ways to solve their problems.” Organa says softly, refusing to back away from Tarkin’s gaze.

“Individuals can propose solutions once they have the power to enforce them.” Tarkin lowers his voice to match Organa’s tone, adding an edge of threat to counter Organa’s newfound resolution. “This is the principle on which the Empire functions.”

“This entire discussion will soon be entirely moot.” Krennic attempts to interject, stepping forward to claim their attention once more, but a suddenly flurry of activity distracts the group once more. A young woman, clad in a lighter blue in a dress of the same fabric as Bail Organa’s robe, rushes forward to claim the senator’s arm, focused on him as she draws herself up.

“Father. At the risk of sounding petulant, _Tion_ is here, and I really think—”

“Ah. This is the young princess, then.” Tarkin interrupts, watching as the woman—barely more than a girl—whirls to stare up at him. Despite her position as the shortest (and youngest) of the group, she holds herself with a unique resolution, and Tarkin finds her gaze surprisingly sharp in the gentle light of the promenade. “I hope Tion isn’t causing more problems.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t presume—”

“Leia, this is Grand Moff Tarkin, overseer of the Seswenna sector. And this…” Bail Organa pauses as he gestures to Krennic, and Tarkin has to prevent himself from smiling. Krennic’s title isn’t public knowledge, and Krennic knows this. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name.”

“Director Orson Krennic, your highnesses.” Krennic offers a low bow, sweeping back his cape in an ornate flourish. Tarkin takes the opportunity to sigh to himself, watching Erso appear silently by his side as the Organas nod appreciatively.

“Tion has proved an…energetic host since we arrived on Coruscant.” Bail Organa speaks, answering Tarkin’s question. “A man is allowed to take pride in his work, but his attention can be somewhat overdone.”

“As I feared.” Tarkin shakes his head, studying both Organas before nodding his farewell. “May you find something of interest in tomorrow’s festivities, even if it has the stamp of Tion’s handling.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, Grand Moff.” Bail Organa offers a nod in return, eschewing a formal salute, and Tarkin turns away to devote his attention to Galen Erso while walking away from the group.

“You disappeared for a moment there. I hope you didn’t get lost.” Tarkin asks quietly, thrilling as Erso draws closer in the press of the crowd. A thrum in his personal communicator confirms that their speeder is waiting, and Tarkin makes careful course corrections to direct them to the entry/exit area of the promenade.

“The theater isn’t _that_ big. You seemed to have entertained yourself adequately.” Erso nods. “I didn’t realize Krennic would be here.”

“Krennic doesn’t need to concern you.” Tarkin glances at the highway to confirm the location of their speeder, and drags Erso through the collection of beings before finding the door of their speeder and opening it for Erso to enter. With the movement of the crowd, Tarkin and Erso practically fall into the speeder and take their seats facing each other, inertia pulling them back for a moment before their pilot enters the stream of traffic and evens out their speed.

“Krennic does concern me. If he knows I was here—”

“There is no Imperial doctrine that prevents you from taking or accepting time off. If Krennic tries to contest that, I think I have the authority to overrule him.”

Erso frowns, but relaxes again to lean forward and rest his hands on Tarkin’s knees. “Thank you.”

“For what? The play was hardly engaging, there’s better options—”

“You know for what. Thank you for bringing me. Thank you for taking me to Coruscant. Thank you for…thank you.”

Tarkin blinks, surprised at the earnest emotion in Erso’s expression. It is rare that Erso is so present, so _engaged_ , and Tarkin cannot remember ever being the focus of Erso’s full attention.

It’s a beautiful feeling.

“I’d do it again.” Tarkin says, feeling the sudden rasp in his voice as _something_ shifts. Erso certainly isn’t helping, what with those eyes and his grip on Tarkin’s legs, but Tarkin simply watches as Erso moves forward and leans over Tarkin’s seat.

“You call me ‘Erso’.”

“That’s merely common courtesy.”

“You ask about my work.”

“Any Imperial officer should take interest in your work.”

“You got me _wine_ after offering me whisky.”

“You like wine. I got you wine tonight, too. You simply like wine, there’s nothing special in catering—”

Tarkin is caught mid-sentence as Erso pushes forward, pressing Tarkin back against the seat as Erso captures him in a kiss. Tarkin is surprised, but not surprised enough to push Erso away, and instead settles his hands at Erso’s waist to let Erso push into the kiss.

It’s true that spending too much time arguing with Krennic might backfire on Tarkin, or provoke Krennic to take out his anger on Erso. But Tarkin cannot simply stand by while Krennic does whatever he likes. There is much that Erso isn’t saying, and much that Tarkin isn’t saying, in clarifying their mutual thanks.

But considering Erso’s enthusiasm, Tarkin figures that there isn’t much they’ll be saying for the rest of the evening.

=====

_Earlier…_

While Tarkin has left the theater proper in order to explore the promenade, Galen has remained behind, trailing slightly in the taller man’s wake to watch him navigate the crowds. Drifting to the side, Galen ducks into an alcove to watch the other visitors mill around the promenade. He has rough memories of earlier plays, other nighttime expeditions to late-night bars and impromptu celebrations at labs now closed. Coruscant is a planet on which it’s easy to lose things: yourself, your past, your future. But Galen didn’t have to come here to know this.

In the sea of grey and white, a flash of blue stands out like a signal flag, and Galen stands taller as a worried face is visible for a brief moment. He leaves his alcove to dive into the crowd, pushing past a rotund-looking general to catch up to a young woman, her hair elegantly braided around her head as she looks to her left and right.

“Miss? I’m sorry—” Galen is jostled forward as someone moves behind him, and he catches himself just in time as the woman turns. Her eyes are wide and bright, sparkling with a youth rarely seen in Imperial administration, and Galen shakes himself once to focus more clearly. “Are you looking for someone?”

“It’s—” The woman nods briefly, her lips curving up in a gentle smile. “It’s good of you to ask. I came here with my father, but we didn’t stay together. It should be easy enough to find him, but he likes to make things difficult.”

“Is it urgent? We can always locate the administrator of this facility—” Galen cuts himself off, lips twitching into a smile as he realizes how ridiculous he sounds. “Listen to me. What I’m trying to say is that there’s likely an announcement system. If he needs your care—”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. I simply want to make sure he doesn’t leave without me.” The woman studies Galen more closely, glancing at his insignia plaque before ducking in a brief curtsey. “Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Administrator….”

“It’s—actually, it’s simpler if you just call me Erso. Galen Erso, engineer, geologist, and aide to the lost.” Galen makes an attempt at a formal bow, earning a pleased laugh from Leia. “If it’s not urgent, then there’s no reason to rush so frantically. Let me escort you some of the way through the crowds, if only to stop someone from running you down. I know how quickly these crowds can push you in the opposite direction of your goals. With two people, we might have a chance at fighting the current.”

“I like the way you think, Galen Erso.” Accepting Galen’s arm with a firm nod, Leia draws close to his side to let him lead the way forward. Though Galen rarely has to navigate such crowds these days, his height gives him a slight advantage over other beings, and he is able to redirect them around the worst of the traffic snarls while Leia studies the groups they pass. As they walk, Galen takes his chance to study Leia in brief glances, suddenly struck with a pang of memory as he takes in the details of the woman beside him.

“I have a daughter about your age. Maybe a little older, but—” Galen nods, watching as Leia looks back to him in surprise. “Sorry. I was simply thinking—it would be more traditional for me to escort her like this, though probably not at an Imperial event. Isn’t your father worried, getting separated from you?”

“My father trusts my abilities.” Leia deflects with a nod, though she slows as Galen does to consider his question. “He wasn’t expecting to accompany me tonight, in truth. He doesn’t come to Coruscant very often, and it always puts him in a bad mood.”

“Well, he’s hardly alone in that. But to let you run through the largest theater, unaccompanied?” Galen tenses, realizing an angle he hadn’t considered. “Unless you met—perhaps you did have an escort, in which case, there was no need—”

“No! No, no, I didn’t have an escort.” Leia laughs aloud, shaking her head. “My father and I arrived together, but he…I was the only one to see the play. I need to find him before anyone starts asking important plot details, just in case he decides he wants to try and answer.”

“He would come all the way here and _not_ bother to watch the play?” Galen cannot help the shock in his voice, even though his own opinion of the play was somewhat dismal. “Your father is an odd man.”

“My family isn’t exactly the most normal. My father has priorities here on Coruscant…beyond what one might expect of a senator.” Leia agrees, turning back to study Galen more closely. “Is it rare for administrators to have families? I know I should learn more about the Imperial hierarchies, but the different sectors always seem to change their regulations.”

“It’s—” Galen blinks in some surprise. All his hesitation and avoidance and reluctance with Tarkin, and here he is discussing family with some random girl? Still, it would be rude for him to avoid the question entirely, and so he offers a thin smile before shrugging. “I don’t have a family now.”

“You…” Leia’s face hardens as she processes his statement, and Galen is surprised to feel her grip on his arm tighten in sudden possessive tension. “The Empire demands much of its citizens.”

“The Empire demands much of the _galaxy_. The portions that do not meet those demands…” Galen has lowered his voice in recognition of the near-treason he speaks, but Leia seems to hear him as clearly as ever.

“We can only hope to find a better way. Not everyone accepts that the Imperial doctrine is the only option available.”

“As long as hope remains, perhaps there is a chance for things to change.” Galen looks up as Leia releases him, and she nods to a group of men only a few meters away.

“That’s my father. Bail Organa. It looks like he’s talking with—” Leia wrinkles her nose, but nods again. “Grand Moff Tarkin. I’d forgotten that he’d be here.”

“And Director Krennic.” Galen says, more to himself than to Leia. “I’ll leave you to make your reunion—but how are you going to explain getting separated from your father? If Tarkin asks—”

“I’m a debutante, Galen Erso. Men of Tarkin’s age will accept that I got caught up in an ill-advised dalliance and simply couldn’t get away!” Leia flutters her eyelashes with exaggerated coquettishness, prompting Galen to laugh softly. “Even better, I’ll explain that I’m trying to get away from Colonel Tion. The fool thinks that because he’s in charge of propaganda, suddenly I’ll overlook his glaring personality flaws and consider him worthy of my company!”

“You, Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, are worthy of only the _best_.” Galen agrees. As Leia prepares to move away, Galen reaches out impulsively to put a hand on her shoulder, turning her slightly to face him one last time. “Never settle for less, Leia. If you stop striving forward, then there’s nothing left—there’s nowhere left to go. For your own sake, and your father’s, you can never settle for less than what is right.”

Leia is quiet for a moment, meeting Galen’s eyes with a look of wisdom beyond her years. Finally, with a nod, Leia takes Galen’s hand from her shoulder and squeezes it once before releasing him. “I promise you this, Galen Erso. I will never stop fighting.” With this unusual farewell, Leia turns away to dart through the few passersby, grabbing at her father’s arm in a surprisingly rough motion. Galen watches in silence, ignoring the tension clenching in his chest, and instead maneuvers through the shadows to come to Tarkin’s side.  

Tarkin’s attention is as palpable as a beam of light, and Galen waits until they leave the group to draw closer to Tarkin as they walk. Though Tarkin does not reach for Galen’s hand, or take his arm, Galen can feel the pull of Tarkin’s protective cocoon all the same, and tries to settle his heartbeat to a more regular tempo as Tarkin guides them.

“You disappeared for a moment there. I hope you didn’t get lost.” Tarkin’s eyes are still busy, scanning the walkways, and Galen resists the urge to grab Tarkin’s hand simply to keep hold of him.

“The theater isn’t _that_ big.” Galen points out, hoping Tarkin chooses not to ask about (or better, didn’t notice) the young Princess Leia. “You seemed to have entertained yourself adequately. I didn’t realize Krennic would be here.”

“Krennic doesn’t need to concern you.” Tarkin dismisses Krennic as if he’s an afterthought, as if he’s inconsequential, and Galen feels his tension begin to unwind.

Krennic _doesn’t_ need to concern him. He has Tarkin. Here, and now, he has Tarkin. As they escape the pressure of the crowds, the scrutiny of a public setting, Galen feels the tug towards Tarkin more strongly than ever, and frames his next words and actions in a pretense of gratitude. He is grateful to Tarkin, if only because Tarkin can brush past Krennic’s stipulations without a second thought. Tarkin the governor is likely an imposing, dangerous figure, the one who makes Krennic cower and bluster his excuses. But Galen has only ever seen Tarkin the man, the individual who cares more about Galen’s happiness than about pleasing Krennic.

Coruscant is a place of bittersweet memories. Most of them still sting harshly in Galen’s memories, raw wounds just barely healed by time. But for this night, for these few moments, Galen can claim something _good_.

Even if history chooses to remember him as a traitor, he can do nothing less than continue to chase his own happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few little references in here that I'm just dying to explain, so please feel free to ask or comment on anything that seems odd! I've become far too invested in this little story line, and would gladly take the chance to ramble further.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Tarkin, just Krennic. Not really ship-focused, but in the interest of cohesion, I'll put it here.

Galen opens his eyes, and nothing seems to change.

His quarters are usually dark, timed to give him the maximum amount of comfort despite the insistent sound of the rain outside. Instead of queueing the lights to rise, however, Galen merely swings his legs over the side of the sleeping pallet and sits, waiting, in the semi-darkness.

He doesn’t ask for this. He never asks for this. But something in him is  _heavy_ , sinking down below the plane of the entire facility, plunging to the depths of Eadu’s stormy sea, and he feels as if he can barely move. He does not know how much time passes. He can’t be certain of how long he’s been awake. It is slowly that he manages to rise, finding a new uniform to replace the one that’s been slept in, and moves to stand in front of his window instead. There is still no light, no indication that the world outside is even real. He is an island, adrift here in the shadow of the galaxy. The rain is the only noise, pounding, incessant, driving, the fury of a tempest and the power of a hurricane. Galen has heard, and felt, probably every kind of rain Eadu has to offer, and none of them are good.

When he takes a deep breath, the movement surprises him, and he belatedly remembers the limits of his self. His body, now aging and fragile, is stiff. It does not respond as it used to. His mind is as active as ever, the intuitive leaps of geology and crystalline development as natural to him as remembering a favorite song. But his limbs are sluggish, his head clouded as if cocooned in a bubble, and it takes him effort to remember where he is. Were he more awake, or if he had more energy, he might be frightened by these moments of separation. But he cannot summon the impetus to care.

He takes a breath. His body is defined by what he can feel, the twinges of nervous impulses and the sparks of responses from his toes to his fingertips.

He takes a breath. His mind is defined by what he knows, the depths of his knowledge and his love for his work. He is one of the most prominent geologists, probably the most qualified geologist, in his field.

He takes a breath. His work is defined by the limits of this facility, clinging to the side of a rock like a barnacle. His interactions with the other researchers, the endless strings of data and repetitive reports, these constitute his waking hours. This is his life now, with the harsh borders enforced by Krennic’s hungry paranoia.

He takes a breath. His self is defined by his work, his mind, his presence here on Eadu, and though he has experienced loss, he cannot allow this to break through. Krennic can never know. Krennic can never see the reality of his pain, the gaping wound that still sits like a stone on Galen’s chest—

 _Lyra_.

Galen takes a breath. It is difficult, almost painful, and he reaches for the pain to ground himself. He is not, he cannot be that man, he cannot be the farmer, he cannot be the father, he is merely  _Erso_ , researcher and lab director and author of yet another paper.

 _Jyn_.

He cannot breathe. The pressure is too great, too large for his tiny frame, and he can feel himself slipping. There is nowhere to go but  _down_ on Eadu, deep into the oceans and the ravines. The darkness there is absolute, swallowing him whole, and he could disappear entirely.

Behind him, the door to his quarters slides open, admitting a figure into the shadows of the room. Galen does not move, his eyes unseeing, and his guest comes to the window beside him before speaking.

“Galen.” Orson Krennic stands, looking up at Galen, his uniform a splash of light in the dim room. Galen forces himself to take another breath, shocked back into the present, and he turns only partially before Krennic reaches up to grab his shoulder.

“Galen. Your techs are worried.” Krennic’s voice is soft, but never gentle, his attention too keen for calm remonstrance. Galen merely nods absently, still unfocused, and Krennic tightens his grip. “ _Galen_.”

 _Which one of them reports to you, Krennic?_ Galen opens his mouth to speak, to ask the question that would only earn him a scoffing dismissal, and wavers as he resists the impulse. He cannot ask. He cannot provoke Krennic, or tempt Krennic’s suspicion.

Oh, if only he could go back to the lab on Coruscant, to before he knew of the depths that awaited him in the galaxy. If only he could accept Krennic’s friendship.

“I’m tired.” He says simply, nodding slowly. He can see the relief in Krennic’s eyes, the touch of warmth that Krennic still fosters towards him. Krennic reaches up, placing his other hand on Galen’s other shoulder, and his grip is solid and real. Galen nods again, bringing a hand to grab Krennic’s upper arm, and Krennic offers a small smile as he feels the pressure of Galen’s grip.

“Let’s get you out of these quarters, hm? The techs have made some interesting progress I think you’ll be pleased to see. Each time I visit, Galen, there’s always some new development. Your crystals never cease to amaze.”

Right. The crystals. Galen’s work. Galen inhales slowly, reminding himself piece by piece, and releases Krennic to take a step back. Taking this as acceptance, Krennic turns, moving to the door again to have Galen follow. Their exit is unceremonial, the hallway empty as they step out, and Krennic smiles to himself as he beckons to Galen.

“I have faith in you, Galen. Your work here—it’s going to change the face of the Empire forever.  _We_  are going to change the face of the Empire. You and me.”

 _Liar_. Galen forces himself to breathe again, stepping forward to join Krennic as they walk. “I’m merely a geologist. I write overly long papers about the mineral structure of the crystals.”

“But you’re the only one, Galen. You’ve made such strides—” Krennic raises a hand, clenching it into a fist. “It’s magnificent. Brilliant. You can’t let the tedium of research prevent you from seeing its final results. There’s great things happening here, Galen. Great things.”

“I suppose.” Galen nods.  _We may change the face of the Empire, Orson. But you might not like what it changes into_. “You always liked to see the big picture.”

“I’m an architect. I have to keep each piece in motion, until it comes together in a final product. I’m sorry I can’t give you more concrete results. But you have to trust me. This is for the good of everyone.”

Galen can feel the tug of anger, the first real impulse he’s felt since waking up.  _Was it worth it? Was it worth Lyra’s life? Was it_ —

“It’s like layers of sediment.” Galen forces himself to speak, his frustration bubbling beneath his calm, even tones. “One atop the other. You can’t see it until you cut all the way through.”

“Yes! Exactly.” Krennic offers another smile, a touch more genuine, and he reaches out to grasp Galen’s arm in eager appreciation. “You don’t know how grateful I am to have you here, Galen. You understand. You know what it is to have a project consume you entirely, to fill your every thought. And we’re able to work on this in unity.”

“In unity, we find strength.” Galen recites, and hates himself for it. Krennic’s smile only grows stronger.

“I’m glad to hear you say it.” Krennic nods, and slows to turn towards Galen more fully. “I’m sorry that the research is so unproductive, at times, and that I can’t visit more often. But I appreciate your work here. Everyone in the Empire will appreciate your work soon enough.”

Galen nods, taking a deep breath, and it is a close call as he pushes down the urge to simply collapse, there and then. He is not strong enough to be angry at Krennic. He can only remain, working and working and working.

“Do you know if Governor Tarkin is scheduled for another visit?” His question is quiet, softer than he intended, but even with that he can see how it hits Krennic. Krennic’s smile fades as he releases Galen’s arm, taking a step back in unconscious recoil.

“Tarkin doesn’t need to concern himself—”

“He read my publications.” Galen says, partially to himself more than to Krennic. “I just—since we’re all working on this  _together_ , I think he has a good perspective on things. And he’s the governor of this sector.”

“I—” The shift is spectacular, even for Galen’s ill-trained eye. Almost immediately, Krennic’s hand is tightening into a fist, the leather catching the light, and Krennic’s shoulders draw in as his entire body tenses. This is anger, Krennic’s defining characteristic. He tries so hard to hide it, whenever he’s with Galen, but the man is simply a container for a bright, shimmering rage. There is none of Tarkin’s nobility, none of Tarkin’s finesse. There is simply Krennic himself, his body too small to contain the full impulse of his emotion.

Oh, Galen can relate. Galen knows what it is to have a sensation consume you entirely, pushing out from inside until it breaks like a wave on the shore. But his has always drawn him down, and in, while Krennic’s forces him up and  _out_. He doesn’t know what Tarkin’s is. Not yet. Maybe the man doesn’t have one, which is why Galen likes him so much.

“I’ll inform him of your interest.” Krennic’s response is icy, practically frigid, and Galen only nods in response. The promise is meaningless, really. But Galen has his own methods for reaching the outside world, and he has no doubt that Tarkin could easily schedule another visit. Even if Galen doesn’t leave the planet, Tarkin would at least bring a respite from his own thoughts.

Galen has lost himself to his imaginings now, considering the possibilities, and he blinks in surprise when he realizes that Krennic has stormed off. Apparently, merely the mention of ‘Tarkin’ is a deterrent, enough to make Krennic leave him alone. Galen is unsure of what this means, or how he feels. Yes, he likes Tarkin. He likes Tarkin perhaps more than Krennic. Krennic has lied, and cheated, and stolen from him, all in the name of an Empire that glorifies pain and suffering.

But Krennic still visits him. Krennic at least makes an effort to understand, even if he is blinded by ambition. Krennic  _wants_  to like Galen, wants to recapture those early years. If nothing else, Galen can empathize with that simple desire.

“I’m sorry.” Galen says to the empty hallway, glancing at the symbols on the wall to confirm his location. He’s at least left his room—the least he can do is check in on the lab readings, find out if Krennic was telling the truth about those ‘interesting’ new results. Krennic will likely leave soon, and then Galen can check his other research projects, and check in with the staff at the hangar bays. A few days will be enough time to wait before sending a message along to Tarkin, just on the off chance Tarkin is available. Things can return to a semblance of normal.

And if he falls back into despair, there’s the chance Tarkin, not Krennic, could pull him out again.


	4. Chapter 4

Galen’s life has been defined by darkness. Eadu is merely a pattern of shadows, the vacuum of space a total void. Light is the exception, not the rule. Even in the heart of a Star Destroyer, Galen can see the lines and edges where light disappears, and he keeps his back to the viewports that open out into empty space.

Krennic, in his usual bombast, is dynamic and powerful. Galen cannot recall a time when Krennic has ever moved slowly or patiently, and so it is now as Krennic paces before a conference table. The room is far too big, clearly built for at least a dozen attendees, and it makes Galen feel dwarfed as he watches the other two men move. They are here for him. Krennic does not come to Eadu otherwise. It is Galen’s work, his results, his reports, that have brought them all here, but even with this, Galen hasn’t been required to say a word.

“You think Tagge will protest. You think he’ll want to have another round of testing?”

“I’m saying the results aren’t clear enough to convince Tagge. They’re hardly enough to convince me.” Tarkin, in the gray of Imperial authority instead of Krennic’s flashy white, glances back at Galen apologetically. “The mining might be progressing, and the construction may be sound. But until we can be certain that the crystals give us results that scale with size, investment seems unproductive.”

“There’s no reason to assume they _won’t_ scale. Besides which, Galen’s already proved that the raw output is enough. We can configure them at a smaller level, if need be, look into microadjustments to position them correctly. This issue is a minor one.”

“And yet it takes up so much of your time.” Tarkin tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment. Galen can see how Krennic’s hands tighten, the lines in his neck standing out in sharper relief. _Don’t give him the satisfaction_ , Galen wants to say. Once Krennic reacts, Tarkin knows he has won. How can this be so clear to Galen, and yet Krennic seems so blind?

“The crystals are the foundation of our weapon, you know this. We have yet to synthesize them properly—”

“So turn your attention there.” Tarkin turns away, moving to the table to scroll through another batch of reports, and Krennic follows close on Tarkin’s heels.

“Synthetics break quickly.” Galen says softly, the attention of both men snapping to him in an instant. “I’ve looked at it before. The outputs are roughly similar, and they break more quickly than natural crystals. If you look at the reports of the chemists, there’s the biological traces—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve told me.” Krennic waves off Galen’s comment, standing at Tarkin’s shoulder to try and disrupt the governor’s attention. “We also have the reports from the mining corporations, if you look here—”

“ _Thank you_ , Krennic, I’m capable.” Tarkin swats away Krennic’s hand, leaning against the table. “You have to remember that these are military men. They won’t read your reports, they won’t read _Erso’s_ reports, when they’re like this. Motti and Tagge are the only two with the capacity to do so, and I doubt they have the patience. Formatting, Krennic. It’s a simple task, find a captain or two with some training in their family business and have them read through it once or twice.”

“Tarkin, this is the most important project in the Empire, I will not have some minor captain trudging through my work—”

 _“Erso’s_ work.” Tarkin turns sharply, facing Krennic fully for the first time. “I will excuse his inability to speak our jargon because he produces useful information. I will not excuse your _laziness_ simply because you’re afraid to let someone else see your papers.”

“I’m not _afraid_ , Tarkin, I’m—”

“It’s ‘Govenor’, Director Krennic, or ‘Grand Moff’ if you’re feeling especially grandiose.” Tarkin’s voice is biting and sharp, an undercurrent cutting like razor wire through the polite overtones of his words. As he steps forward, Galen recognizes how tall he truly is, and how short Krennic is. It is rare to see Krennic cowed like this, pushed against a force he does not often confront. And then, as Krennic takes a step back, Galen can see the flicker of fear.

It’s only there for an instant, the briefest glance of uncertainty. But Tarkin does not relent, does not move from his spot, and he’s already opening his mouth to continue. Galen moves forward, relegated to the shadows of this confrontation, and tries to formulate a productive intervention.

“Keep your position in mind, _Director_ , when you try to tell others how to use their own. Your utility is far smaller than you might have been led to believe, and—”

“Tarkin. Stop.” Galen moves forward, coming into Tarkin’s field of view, and he can see how Tarkin’s attention shifts again. Tarkin’s shoulders drop, sinking back, and the man seems to condense slightly. Krennic is already recovering, brushing away imaginary dust on his collar, and as Krennic takes a step back, Galen can feel all too acutely how things have changed. Tarkin is watching him now, the soft attention of honest appreciation, and Krennic’s own attention is laser-focused on both of them.

No one says anything for at least ten seconds, and it is Krennic who makes the first move. His attention is something like a glare, but without any hint of reprimand, and he switches off the table’s data display before turning on a heel and leaving the room. Immediately, Galen can feel the tension disappear from between his shoulders, and Tarkin is already there to put a hand on Galen’s shoulder, turning him away from the closed door.

“Erso.”

Galen pulls away, unsure of what he means to say. He still isn’t entirely sure what just _happened_ —Krennic is angry, as he always is, but he didn’t do anything. He didn’t say anything. He simply…left.

“Erso, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m not.” Galen shakes his head, reclaiming some stability. “Tarkin, he didn’t deserve that.”

“The man tries to start fights that his reputation cannot sustain. If he would _learn_ —”

“You are the last person from whom he’ll take instruction.” Galen nods, looking up to meet Tarkin’s eyes for the first time. “Just…don’t get involved, with him.”

Tarkin watches Galen closely, drawing close again to take Galen’s hands in his. “I can’t avoid him. You know that.”

“But you don’t have to pick fights with him.”

Tarkin tilts his head, shrugging. “I cannot help if he picks fights with _me_.”

Galen sighs, gripping onto Tarkin’s hands. “Tarkin—”

“Wilhuff. Remember.” Tarkin lifts his hands to the center of his chest, studying the ridges of Galen’s knuckles.

“Don’t waste your time with Krennic.”

“I don’t want to think about _Krennic_.” Tarkin is moving his hands, angling Galen’s palm to study the lines there. “I don’t get out this far very often. I don’t _see_ you very often. Let Krennic busy himself with paperwork and deadlines.”

“Tarkin.” Galen blinks, taken aback as Tarkin presses a kiss to the center of Galen’s palm.

“ _Wilhuff_.” Tarkin moves forward, moving his lips to the cuff of Galen’s uniform, then smiles as he lowers one hand to Galen’s waist. “I may have some complaints about these Imperial uniforms—this color does not suit you—but you manage to bring it… _something_. Something new. Something—”

“Why are you doing this.” Galen takes a deep breath, feeling the pressure of Tarkin’s body against his as Tarkin leans close.

“Because I like you. I like being with you, I like seeing you, I like touching you. It isn’t so complicated.”

“But _why_.” Galen glances to the table, trying to remember the goal of this meeting in the first place. Krennic had been worried about outputs—Krennic was always worried about outputs—and Tarkin had been summoned. Or maybe he invited himself?

“Because you’re brilliant. And quiet. You hold so much inside yourself, it just makes it that much more interesting to uncover it.” Tarkin is moving now to Galen’s collar, cupping the side of Galen’s head. “You don’t believe me.”

“I—Wilhuff, it’s not a question of belief—” Galen turns into Tarkin’s arms, suddenly gripping at the fabric on Tarkin’s upper arms.

Tarkin says nothing, but his smile is confident and knowing, and Galen feels himself smiling back. Perhaps he doesn’t need to worry about Krennic. Tarkin is capable of handling himself, and Krennic…well, Krennic will learn to handle himself. With time.

“This is a conference room.” Galen says against Tarkin’s ear, his surprise hitting him only belatedly. “Wilhuff, there are people—”

“I have quarters here, too. We can move.” Tarkin grins, releasing Galen in order to smooth his uniform once more. “You won’t need a shuttle back to Eadu for a few hours, correct? A few hours at least.”

“At least.” Galen nods slowly, trying to suppress his rush of sudden excitement. “You’re seriously simply going to ignore Krennic and—”

“Focus on you? It’s better than the reverse.” Tarkin nods, turning to lead Galen to the door. “You’ve done your work here. Let Krennic handle it now.”

Galen nods quickly, falling into step behind Tarkin as they leave the room and make their way down the hallway. He will have to return to Eadu soon enough, certainly. Tarkin will leave, and Krennic will ask for yet another report. Life will go on as quietly as it always has.

Tarkin will never understand what exactly Galen appreciates about Krennic—Galen can barely explain to himself. And yet it is Tarkin, not Krennic, who occupies Galen’s imagination; Tarkin in his shadowy gray, not Krennic in his bold, bright white. Perhaps it’s because Galen belongs to the shadows. It’s where he feels comfortable, where he feels _right_.

Or maybe, it’s simply because Tarkin moves with such self-confident assurance, Galen cannot help but be swept along.

Galen’s smile only gains strength as they walk, and he finds himself confident, even here. He does not belong on a Star Destroyer, orbiting Eadu, or even in this overly military setting. And yet with Tarkin, beside Tarkin, he fits.

He is not sure what more there is to ask for in his position.


End file.
